


dance for me

by jemejem



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: #andreala, Ballet AU, F/F, Gender Bender, Gender Bent, Useless Lesbians, ballerina!neil, dance au, everyone is of the opposite sex and it was a lot of effort let me tell you, this is such a mess AND I KNOW I SAY THAT EVERY TIME BUT THIS TIME I MEAN IT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 15:39:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16600784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemejem/pseuds/jemejem
Summary: Neala gripped the barre. This would be her only chance to dance before her mother would hunt her down and killed her.You stupid, stupid girl, her father murmured in her ear. She squeezed her eyes shut. All his hard work at keeping her safe, down the drain. Signing with Palmetto Dance meant performances, competitions, publicity. It was signing herself up for a shortened life.Her pointe shoes complained with overuse as she rolled up onto them.It didn’t matter if she died. This was the only thing that made her feel alive.





	1. prologue

Neala hesitated at the door, seeing the myriad of dancers within the studio. The tarquette was polished, the wooden barres at three different heights, the mirrors spanning across two walls. Diana Wymack stood by the piano where a middle-aged woman sat, a clipboard in her hands. Tattoos wrapped around the teacher's arms, her hair streaked with silver as it brushed her shoulders. Neala remembered when she’d appeared at the door of Hernadez’s studio in Milton, watching her dance before she realised she was there. 

Hernandez had sent a video, knowing that Neala had been sleeping in the warm-up room. Now she was here, with a contract and a name in the eisteddfod ballot. 

She swallowed thickly, hands gripping her bag. She'd slicked her hair too tight, the pull on her skull giving her a headache. Her bun wasn’t as neat as the other girls, her tights worn and her dark green leotard stretched and lumpy. She needed a full-sleeved one, though. Otherwise they would all see her scars. 

“Neala Josten.” Wymack didn’t look up. “Come in.”

Neala knew Kayleigh, and Andrea: She’d seen the rest of them as a blur of faces, but could barely pair names to each. They all looked at her as she stepped into the room, except Andrea, who had her tights rolled up to her ankles, a sweater on, and her hair in a messy ponytail as she stretched lazily over a yoga ball. No one paid her any mind as they laced their pointe shoes, neatened their hair and began to warm up. 

Wymack gave her an assessing gaze, putting the clipboard atop of the piano. “Welcome to Palmetto Dance, Neala.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” She nodded her head, keeping her voice low.

“Get to the barre: Behind Nicola.”

Nicola waved, smiling. Neala felt a sweeping wave of relief at a friendly face. The girl’s back curls fought wildly to escape the girl’s attempt at a bun: She was lithe and lean and skipped over to her place with enthusiam. Kayleigh glared at Neala as she walked past. 

She started clicking names to faces. The girl pretty much identical to Andrea had to by Amy Minyard, her twin. 

“How was Columbia, Nicki?” Remi asked, standing tall and stiff but maintaining a nice smile. He seemed too careful, Neala decided. The cross at the hollow of his throat contradicted to the rainbow streaks in his silvery-blond hair: He was a visual contradiction in every way. 

There were only three ballerinos at Palmetto: Daniel Wilds, Alistair Reynolds and Remi Walker. Each of them stood fierce in their places. Alistair looked styled and examined his nails as Sienna talked at him, clearly angry. Daniel spoke with Madeline Boyd, granting her a kiss on the cheek and Remi had just engaged a conversation with Nicki.

Nicki squealed when asked about her break. “Well, we all went to Eden’s, like— _nine_ times and they never made us pay for drinks, and I managed to drag them to the summer fair, even though Amy kept complaining, she did enjoy it eventually, even though she’ll tell you differently if you ask—“

Wymack clapped her hands once. “Everyone, shut up. Talk later when you’re not wasting my time.”

“But—“ Nicki huffed. “We haven’t even introduced ourselves to Neala!”

“She’ll live.” Wymack declared flatly. Nicki deflated. “Face the barre! Betsy, _plies en grande plies,_ please.” 

Neala gripped the barre. This would be her only chance to dance before her mother would hunt her down and killed her. 

_You stupid, stupid girl._ Her father murmured in her ear. She squeezed her eyes shut. All his hard work at keeping her safe, down the drain. Signing with Palmetto Dance meant performances, competitions, publicity. It was signing herself up for a shortened life. 

Her pointe shoes complained with overuse as she rolled up onto them. 

It didn’t matter if she died. This was the only thing that made her feel alive.


	2. act I

“Neala, Neala, Neala.” Andrea Minyard sauntered towards her, leering forwards onto her toes to get right into Neala’s face. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Ha! Rhyming.”

When she learned of the Foxes’ — the nickname that those of Palmetto Dance had adopted — living situation, she almost bailed. She was barely sold on the idea of staying here as it was: Knowing she’d be living with others on a shared floor in an apartment building was terrifying. Her dark brown hair, brown eyes and front of lies would have to remain solid and completely opaque if she wanted to stay until she was found by her mother. Three units, all on floor 4 of the building, facing one another. Neala would stay with the tall, muscular but threateningly-friendly Madeline and the lanky, irritatingly bitter Sienna. Neither of them seemed particularly interested in knowing Neala from the inside out, though Sienna initially tried to get under Neala’s skin. Now she just grumbled and complained to Alistair when their relationship wasn’t volatile, or to Madeline when it was. 

There were three single beds in their room, a couch in their living room, a dining table, a bookshelf full of Mad’s DVDs and video games, their yoga balls and mannequins for tutu reparations. A small practise barre and mirror were mounted by the far window: The entire place was practically devoted to ballet. As were its tenants.

“Stay out of my shit.” Neala’s anger was thinly veiled. “Or things will get ugly.” 

“Let me think about that.” Andrea grinned, an ugly, cruel grin, and cocked her head. “No.”

_“Kayleigh!”_ Neala snapped. She yelled in French, which plastered a mildly surprised look on Andrea’s face. _“Get out here, or I renounce every promise I made you!”_

_I will take you all the way to finals,_ she’d whispered. _You could be a principal dancer. You could have everything. Tell me you want it too. No—show me._

Andrea threw the door open, hearing the young woman approach from behind. She said: “Yet another charming surprise. Still hiding things?”

Neala ignored her, glaring at Kayleigh. They conversed in purely French, Kayleigh stumbling over words and accent rusty. “Did you order your guard dog to go through my stuff? Because you said you weren’t interested in who I was.”

“I’m not interested.” Kayleigh snapped. “And I don’t tell her to do anything. If she thinks you’re a threat, that’s your problem, not mine. Sort it out yourself, and if you don’t stick by your promises, you can kiss your contract good-bye.”

Neala bristled. “Fine.” She said in English. She turned away and slammed the door of her own apartment shut, returning to the bedroom. Both Madeline and Sienna were in the guys’s apartment, and she’d been too delirious with anger to pack up the mess she’d made. After returning from a morning run, she’d found her belongings in perfect order. Andrea was good at covering her tracks, but not good enough for Neala. She took the binder of Kayleigh and Rie’s careers and stuffed into the bottom drawer of her dresser. She held her father’s old ballet flats to her chest for a moment, before hiding them alongside the binder. Next was her mother’s old leotard, red and decorated ornately in gold. Her mother had said she would never dance, so long as Natalie was alive. With every day that Neala danced, she defied her mother. The leotard was a reminder of her mother that Neala didn’t particularly need, but she couldn’t throw the leotard away. It was stunning. Besides, her mother had made it so that she’d never be able to dance without full-coverage, the scars littering her shoulders and collarbone, an angry red against sunlight-deprived skin and horrific. 

She shoved her duffel on top of all that, packing her clothes into the drawers. She was able to lock the bottom with the padlock she’d purchased yesterday. The apartment and bedroom and now her dresser all had locks. It didn’t make her feel okay, but it felt better than it had before. 

She twitched nervously at the sound of the apartment being unlocked, but she recognised Madeline and Sienna’s voices. 

“Neala! We’re going out for dinner, do you want to tag along?” 

She peered out. “Where?”

“Downtown.” Madeline was fixing her hair in the mirror: She liked to wear it in two buns when she wasn’t training, which she called alien-buns. Sienna was swiping on lip gloss, flicking her hair behind her shoulders. They both wore dresses and sandals, whilst Neala was still in sweats and a loose shirt. 

“I’ll pass.” She said, pulling down her shirt self-consciously. Madeline looked at her with a look of pity before Sienna dragged her out again. Neala was alone in the apartment. 

She took off her shoes and took her place by the practise barre, avoiding her reflection as she practised to the piano duet on the radio. Like this, she could almost forget the nagging tone of her father’s voice in the back of her head. She practised _relevé_ and _passé_ until her feet were burning: She really needed new shoes. 

“You’re going to hurt your feet in those.”

She jumped, a flurry of curses accompanying it. “How did you get in here!” 

Andrea stepped out from behind Kayleigh with a wicked smile. “I did. Invest in better locks if you want to get rid of me, rabbit.” Her other half shot her a confused look. Neala’s stomach twisted. 

“We’re going to the studio.” Kayleigh cleared her throat. “You’re coming.”

“You’re going to practise?” She eyed Andrea. “Why practise now when you never do during the day?”

“Oh, I’m just your sweet ride.” She winked, swinging her car-keys around her finger. “Hip hop, little rabbit. You’ve got five minutes.”

Neala swallowed, going to grab tights and a leotard from her room, swiping her dance bag off the floor by her bed and shoving her feet into her shoes. Kayleigh’s hair was down, so she didn’t bother fixing her low bun and followed the two women out of the apartment, locking it behind her. Andrea laughed at her and she felt nauseated by the sound. 

She changed in the studio’s bathroom and met Kayleigh in the studio as she was stretching. 

“Don’t take so long next time.” She snapped, standing up. Andrea laid by a radio, chewing gum lazily. Neala muttered out an apology and stood behind Kayleigh. They ran through their warm-up quickly, Neala relying on copying Kayleigh more than her memory: She’d only known these exercises for a week, and they often changed in order and length. Kayleigh then turned around, and together they held arabesques and attitudes. She criticised Neala’s _rond en l’air_ and they spent ten minutes holding each leg in the air, isolating joints. Neala was beginning to shake but refused to show weakness in front of Kayleigh, who was brilliant at _everything_. She wasn’t what she used to be, before Rie crushed her foot, but her come-back was nothing short of insane. She had to be in pain, but showed nothing on her face. Neala tried, but when she let out a small gasp as her muscle faltered in a _frappé_ , Kayleigh shook her head. 

“Break.” 

Neala gulped with relief, running to her drink bottle. She ran her knuckles down her trembling thighs. 

“Stupid.” Andrea laughed, under her breath. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” 

Neala watched as Kayleigh continued to work, until she was sweating profusely and breathless. She walked over for a drink and looked at Neala’s state. “We’re done.”

“What?” Neala choked. “No—“

“For today.” Kayleigh added. 

“I’m fine.” Neala stood straight. “I swear, I am—“

“I see how you throw yourself into everything with complete abandon.” Kayleigh held her chin between two spindly fingers. “You have a death wish. You’ll hurt yourself and never dance again. Then what, Neala? Then you’ve lost everything. The chance of eisteddfods, championships, Prix De Lausanne, Solo Seal. Don't risk it by being stupid.”

Neala had been put in her place. She sunk onto the floor and her legs sobbed in relief. 

“I didn’t know you speak french.” Kayleigh crossed her arms. 

Neala shrugged. “It’s the language of ballet. I grew up learning it—didn’t you?”

“Yes. Of course.” She said, running her tongue across her teeth. “It’s just been a while since I’ve needed to use it.”

Neala said nothing. She wasn’t really interested in conversation. 

“Let’s talk about your solo options.” Kayleigh prompted. “I really think that you can pull off La Bayadere if you worked hard enough…”

They talked until Andrea’s phone died, and her patience dying with it. Neala waited till she was back to the flat to shower, careful not to wake Madeline or Sienna. She laid on her back and saw the audience behind her eyes, watching, waiting. Silent, as she ran on stage. The lights blinded her, the anticipation thrumming with every heartbeat. 

She fell asleep to the sounds of applause, knowing that it would always be just a dream. 

*

“Come _on!_ ” Kayleigh urged, clapping her hands again. “Again. Go!” 

Neala paced backwards, relaxing her clenched fists. Andrea started the music again, and Neala jumped up, spinning, the moves ingrained into her memory, she didn’t have to think about it, she just needed to keep breathing through the pain—

When she stumbled, Kayleigh let out a scream of frustration. “You—!”

“No.” Neala gasped, catching her breath. “That’s _enough_. Remember what you said two months ago? About hurting myself?” 

Kayleigh grit her teeth. “You’re hopeless.”

“Me, hopeless?” Neala snapped. “You can’t even handle the stress of competition anymore. You’re losing it. How do you expect to keep it together backstage tomorrow? You won’t, because you’ve just been using me as a scape-goat. Stop shitting on me as your outlet. I’m done, and you should go sleep it off, unless you want the first competition of the season to be a spectacular failure.”

Kayleigh spun on her heel and left without a word. 

“Interesting, little rabbit.” Andrea’s meds usually wore off around this time, but the leer was still in her voice. “Talk all that smack about keeping it together when you’re barely able to do just that. Tomorrow will be terrific.”

“Wasn’t talking about me.” She said, quiet. Andrea just flapped her hand. 

“Oh, you’re a lying little liar.” She stood up. “I’m taking you out.”

“What?”

“To Eden’s.” She poked Neala’s nose with her finger. “Eden’s Twilight. A celebration for our little novice’s first competition, hm?”

“No, thank you.” Neala moved to get past her, but Andrea moved to block. 

“You don’t get a choice in the matter.” She sung, pulling up the warmers on her arms. She’d taken small, black leg-warmers and turned them into sleeves, always wearing them. Neala heard it was a way to distinguish her and her twin apart, but she suspected differently. In the eight weeks of being here, it’d been an agonisingly painful journey, and yet nothing drastically bad had occurred. 

Neala was sure this was her grace period ending. “Why the warmers?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Andrea smiled so hard her eyes squinted, gums showing. Neala watched her saunter out of the studio, turning the lights off and leaving Neala suspended in darkness. 

*

“Welcome to the Classical Dance Project!” Keary Ferdinand crowed. “For all of you watching out there, and to everyone here in the audience, you are lucky today! You wouldn’t believe who I snagged for an interview before she makes her debut return—that’s right, everyone. Kayleigh Day returns to our stage tonight!” Cheering immersed Neala as she watched Kayleigh walk on stage, makeup done and still in warm-up gear. 

Keary kissed both of her cheeks: She smiled brilliantly, like she always did on stage. Neala knew it was the fakest smile she could muster. No one knew the real Kayleigh Day. 

“God, you’re looking amazing, Kays!” They laughed together, sitting on the couch. “How are you feeling? It’s an honour to have you here, right now.”

“Thank you!” She tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “It’s surreal, being here, but it’s amazing being back in amongst performers. I really missed it.”

“Of course, you’re destined to be on the stage!”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” She laughed. 

“Seems weird to see her smiling.” Nicki grinned. Neala had almost forgotten the rest of the Foxes, who dwelled near her, watching what unfolded on stage.

“Surely you’d prefer to be dancing with Evermore, now that you’re back on your feet.”

Kayleigh barely hesitated, but it was enough for the Foxes to tense. They all knew the truth: The world didn’t. “I have found that I’m really enjoying the dynamic at Palmetto. It’s something about their…work ethic. We’re all very close.” She added. 

“Speaking of Palmetto, what about the newbie?” Neala tensed as she was walked up to the edge of the stage. She wished she could check her hair’s root colour once more—just in case. “Everyone’s been mystified by your new protégé, Kayleigh. It’s like Rie’s been replaced. Why don’t we bring her out?” 

Neala walked out from the wings, directly to the couch where Kayleigh sat. She could kiss any hopes of being discreet and hidden goodbye as she sat beside her fellow dancer. She put a hand on Neala’s knee and squeezed: It was more a warning than comfort. _Don’t fuck this up._

“Neala!” Keary had a slimy composure. Neala hated him instantly. “Finally, we can find out who this mystery ballerina is. You’ve caught Kayleigh’s attention: That alone is a reason to catch ours. How do you feel?”

“Overwhelmed.” Neala admitted. “But this is everything I’ve dreamed of.”

“I bet it is.” Keary agreed. “How long have you been dancing again, Neala?”

“Four years.” She said, feigning shame. She’d trained much longer than that. 

“Hear that?” Keary barked out a laugh. “Four years, and she’s closer to stardom than most of us could hope for! Kayleigh, do tell us what you see in her.”

“You’ll be able to see for yourselves.” Kayleigh promised. 

“I’ll be holding you to that.” He winked at them. “Now, Kay, I must ask: How does she compare to Rie? You were practically sisters, could Neala ever replicate that?”

Kayleigh was so tense that Neala feared she’d snap. “The accident really put a wedge between us: I want Neala and I to—help each other through challenges, instead.”

“Are you saying Rie didn’t help you through challenges?”

“No, I—“ Kayleigh’s facade was splintering. 

“I wonder what she has to say on this subject?” Keary smiled, slick and knowing. “I wonder—if she’d be able to tell us right now?”

Kayleigh froze. Neala held her wrist, feeling her racing pulse under her skin. The audience was cheering with an intense ferocity that Neala had never witnessed before as Rie Moriyama walked on stage, rhinestones glistening in her hair and under each eye. Another chair was brought on with her, and she sat carefully atop of it, crossing her legs at her ankles as her smile shone down onto the crowd that rooted for her. 

They quietened eventually. “Isn’t this amazing?” Keary asked the crowd. “Rie and Kayleigh, facing each other for the first time in months. Have you ever competed against each other?”

“I don’t think we ever got the chance.” Rie’s voice was smooth, her words careful and her smile full or pure _gloating_. Kayleigh was bone-white. 

“Then this will be a world-first, right here!” Keary clapped his hands. “You know, we were all so horrified when we heard about Kayleigh’s accident, but resurfacing at Palmetto, teaching and then recovering strong enough to perform again but staying down south—it was a shock! Were you expecting it, Rie?”

“Kayleigh’s always been so headstrong.” Rie tilted her head slightly, gaze raking down Kayleigh’s frozen form. “It was humiliating being weakened in front of everyone. Wasn’t it?”

“I felt careless.” Her voice was robotic. “I preached about being careful, and then I almost ended my own career.”

“Skiing, Kayleigh!” Keary’s words were little knives dragging across Kayleigh’s skin, and Neala could tell. “What possessed you to do it?”

“I’m young, Keary.” She smiled, but it shook. “I’m impulsive and reckless just like the rest of the young adult population. Evermore was on a winning streak, as it always had been. Winning is intoxicating sometimes, don’t you think?”

“Evermore _was_ on a winning streak?” Rie smiled delicately. “You don’t think that’ll end with you gone, do you?”

“I have faith in Palmetto.” Kayleigh said, swallowing uneasily. 

“Oh, yes.” Rie waved her fingers at Neala, like she was waving to a child. “How could I forget, your new neophyte and the rest of their _crew_. Honestly, Kayleigh, how could you lower yourself to their level?”

“They are all respectable dancers—“ Kayleigh’s voice was thread-bare. 

“We would have supported you, no matter what.” Rie was infuriatingly condescending. The muscle in Neala’s cheek twitched. “Teaching, performing: You had everything at Evermore. Now look at you: You’re training someone who’s never been through a single exam, and clearly shows that lack of discipline—“

“Kayleigh is doing something that not many dare to do.” Neala spoke up, stomach in knots. “She’s climbing her way up the ladder all over again, instead of using reputation alone to hold her place at the top. I respect that, and so should everyone else.”

“She is not enough to pull your hopeless team up on its own.” Rie sneered. 

“She’s not alone. We’re a team for a reason.” Neala clasped her hands in her lap. “We dance because we love it, and Kayleigh can see that. We all want the best for each other, instead of dragging each other down to climb higher.”

“Because you’re weak.” Rie snapped.

“Because we’re all on second chances, and desperation is one hell of a motivation.” Neala cleared her throat. “Maybe Kayleigh wanted to work with a group of people dedicated to the craft rather than the fame — And maybe you should reconsider your reasons for being here, because wanting to antagonise Kayleigh isn’t a good one.” 

“And on that note of animosity, we’re going to start the competition!” Keary jumped up. “What an exciting way to begin, right? Thank you, Kayleigh, Rie, Neala—you’ve been a treat!” 

They were rushed off together, where the Foxes waited, astonished.

Neala heaved once when she found herself side-stage again, clutching onto her stomach. Rie’s eyes gazing on her had been cold and endless, like a dark tunnel, and Neala wasn’t able to escape. 

She wondered if she recognised her mother’s face. Natalie Wesninski had been a world-famous dancer, after all. Until she’d been imprisoned for fraud. It was the only charge the FBI had found her on. Prison wouldn’t keep Neala safe. Now she’d made Rie Moriyama her public enemy.

“Little rabbit, you surprise me again. You know I _hate_ surprises.” Andrea crouched under her, looking up with manic eyes. “And here was everyone thinking you’re quiet. Now they know the truth.” 

“Where’s Kayleigh.” Neala choked out. “Rie will come for her—“

Andrea’s gaze snapped towards the huddle of Foxes, who were dispersing at the presence of another. She stood and grabbed Neala’s wrist, dragging her along. 

“—Despicable.” Rie spat. Kayleigh was curled in on herself, cowardice shrinking her frame. “An embarrassment. You didn’t think that she’d ever make it, did you? Ballet is more than the moves. The habits picked-up on as a child make all the difference. You know it, don’t you. I can see it. She’ll never be anything, and you’ve placed all your hope on a failure.”

“Leave.” Andrea said, cooler than Neala had ever heard. The Foxes collectively winced. “Now.”

“You’re not going to let your bitch order me around like this, are you?” Rie laughed. “Oh, wait. She orders _you_ around. How foolish of me to think you’d ever grow a spine, Kayleigh.” She leaned into Kayleigh’s ear to whisper something and Kayleigh winced, trying to pull away from Rie’s grip on her shoulder. 

Andrea grabbed Rie by the throat, pushing her back. Rie flailed, scraping at Andrea’s hand, pulling at the woollen warmers. “Don’t touch what’s mine.”

“Andrea,” Kayleigh pulled at her clothes, trying not to touch her. “Andrea, stop—!” 

“What the fuck is going on here?” Wymack was storming over. Neala head was spinning. 

“Andrea, we won’t be able to compete. You’ll be letting her win.” She stepped closer. _“Andrea.”_

She threw Rie back, brushing off her hands with disgust and said nothing else. 

They watched Rie straighten, resuming her composure. “I will make you regret the day you were born.”

She turned and left, leaving silence in her wake. 

“She can’t do anything that’s already been done!” Nicki joked weakly. 

“We’ve got a warm-up studio out back.” Wymack said. “Come on.”

Neala trailed behind, unable to think clearly with the ghosts over her shoulder. She closed her eyes and let the sound of the others guide her. Andrea looked over her shoulder once, but left Neala to have her crisis alone. 

_Don’t look back, don’t slow down, don’t trust anyone._

Neala itched for a cigarette, but focussed on the burn of her muscles as she warmed up anyway. 

_I’m sorry, Dad._

* 

The amount that Kayleigh could drink was horrifying. 

The loss stung, but Kayleigh hadn’t been able to pull it together in time to perform. They sent out Neala instead, who _knew_ that she was still weak. She’d barely scraped her way into the top 20. Kayleigh had been too shattered to try and reprimand her, letting Wymack herd her onto the bus back home. The rest of the troupe were oddly disheartened, Neala could tell: The boys’ trio wasn’t its most vivacious, Daniel and Madeline’s duet looking strained and clumsy. Andrea had refused to perform with her sister and cousin, sitting beside Kayleigh and looking bored out of her skull. 

Palmetto Dance walked away from CDP embarrassed and broken. Now Neala sat in a booth, the rock music blasting from every corner. She remembered long nights in clubs like these, working as her father talked and got connections to keep them safe. She didn’t miss the hungry stares of men, young and old, as they slid dollars across the stage towards her. 

_Show a little more skin, sweetheart_ , they would croon. If she ever dared to show more than she did (and she never dared), she knew they’d recoil and gag. Her father, when angered by a failed deal, would drag her by her hair and lock her in the motel bathrooms for hours if she didn’t earn enough money. 

_I’m trying to keep you alive, Abree._

She picked at the tight shirt she wore, hating the way it clung to her skin. She was terrified every scar and malformation was on show, and could only pray that the lighting kept it concealed. The skirt was worse, tight leather, coming down just above mid-thigh. Andrea hadn’t made her wear heels, in favour of a pair of heavy boots that Neala could see herself using to kick the girl square in the chest. 

Instead, she stared mystified as Nicki, Kayleigh and Amy took shots like their lives depended on it. Andrea sipped on whisky, oddly sombre. She mustn’t have taken her meds. Neala wondered how long she’d be able to pull off skipping doses until her parole officer found out. 

“Rabbit,” Her voice called her out of her twisting thoughts. “Come.”  
She slid out of the booth uneasily, following Andrea to the bar. She banged her fist against the smooth marble, and a woman smiled easily at her. “Second round?” She eyed Neala. “And for you?”

“Soda.” Neala knotted her fingers together. 

“You sure?”

Andrea gave her a flat look. The girl hummed.   
Neala watched her make the drinks, setting out the tray for Andrea to carry back. She followed closely behind until they’d made it back to the booth. Neala took a sip of her soda and grimaced at the sickly sweetness. She was thirsty, though, and water was too easy to spike, so she took two gulps. 

She felt woozy in no time, blinking rapidly. A gritty feeling grated against her tongue, and she leaned forward. “ _You—!”_

Andrea laughed, and it sounded like it was from the end of a tunnel. She stumbled away from the table and lost herself in the crowd. She was pushed around, hands sliding down her hips and across her back, fingers on her neck and under her chin. 

“Hey, honey!” Nicki yelled, laughter sounded like a ringing bell. It pierced Neala’s ears. When she kissed her, it tasted sweet and Neala tried to push her away before she was forced to swallow the taste, but her arms were weak. Her hands didn’t even look like her own. She stumbled into a flat surface, being a wall, and held herself there as the room spun. 

“You know why I call you a rabbit?” Andrea leered, leaning over from the stair above. There were stairs? Her mind was so fragmented. Frag-ment-ed. Neala swayed. “Because I know you’re a run-away. You look for ever viable exit. You hide each of your possessions, of which you can count on one hand. You’re a _liar_. Initially, I thought you were some spy of Rie’s, sent under a different name and story. Then I thought you could be running _from_ her. But only someone suicidal would talk like that to the person they were running from, so I almost scratched that from my list of possibilities.” She huffed out a laugh. “Turns out, you’re really just stupid. You think Roe wasn’t going to be able to spike your drink because you were there? She knows what to do when I bring in someone new.”

“Fuck--” Neala dragged in a painful breath. “--You.” 

“So, am I right, little rabbit?” Andrea held Neala’s cheeks between her hands. “Are you running from Rie Moriyama? Because you’re terrible at it.” She held Neala’s mouth open as she tipped another sachet of powder into her mouth, forcing her mouth shut. Her smile was wicked. “Have fun.” Neala was spun around and thrown back out into the crowd. 

The night melted away at her fingertips, and Neala had no way of getting it back under her control. She let it take her instead, and hoped she’d still be alive when the night was done. 

*

“Neala Josten.” Diana Wymack’s voice was shrill and menacing. “Where in flying-fuck have you been?”

“I went for a walk.” 

“Right. A _walk.”_ She threw up her hands. “How could I think otherwise? Oh, that’s right, because you _walked back from another city and took four hours?”_

“Sorry, ma’am.” Neala muttered, bowing her heard. “I wont do it again.”

“Damn right you wont!” She stormed back into the kitchen, where something smelled like it was burning. 

Neala looked around the apartment. It was ten minutes away from the rest of the troupe, the studio half-way between them. It was messy, cigarette ash trays and newspapers sprawled across the coffee table and desk in the corner. Papers littered the dining table in the kitchen, where Wymack was banging around, her hair a rat’s nest and sweats low on her hips, feet bare. 

The front door banged open, and Neala reached for the gun in her pocket before remembering she didn’t have one. Andrea shot her an amused look. 

Wymack came bristling out. “Seriously? I’ve changed the locks—how can you fuckers keep getting in here?”

“Made it back alive, I see.” Andrea drawled with her southern lilt. 

“Fuck you.” Neala hissed. She switched to German, once again seeing a tiny flicker of surprise across Andrea’s face. “I’m not a mole, and I’m not running from Rie. Drug me—no, come _near_ me again, and I will not hesitate.”

Andrea’s German was fluent and easy. “Don’t threaten me, rabbit. I’m here to strike a deal.”

“Jesus.” Wymack stalked out, unable to understand what was happening. 

“I will protect you.” Andrea said, voice low. “If you tell me what I’m protecting you from. So long as you keep Kayleigh from running back to the Queen.”  
“How am I supposed to do that?” Neala strained, crossing her arms over her stomach. “Rie’s right: I don’t have the discipline to be a ballerina.”

“Prove her wrong. Give Kayleigh a reason to stay. Do that, and I’ll keep you safe.”

It was so foolish. One small girl wasn’t going to keep Neala out of the Butcher of Baltimore’s clutches. “My parents were tied to the Moriyamas. The main branch. The crime family.”

“I know how the Moriyamas work.” She said darkly. “What did they do?”

“Just some surveillance, transportation, simple work.” She swallowed. “They weren’t important. So they lived for longer than they expected when they stole some of the Moriyamas’ money, because they didn’t bother to check them. They got cocky. It killed them. The Moriyamas don’t really know I exist, but if they do, they’ll kill me. I’ve still got the money. The binder is to hide my codes and stashes. Though maybe I was a little obsessed.” She admitted. “I knew that trying meant death, but I couldn’t help wanting to dance.”

“And yet here you are, stepping into the lime-light and taunting Rie Moriyama.” Andrea murmured. “You’re more stupid than I thought.” She’d switched to English, so Wymack came back in sipping on her coffee. 

“You two good?” She asked. 

“Excellent, ma’am.” Andrea drawled. “We’ll just be heading back now.”

“You’re not serious.” She was looking at Neala, who just looked down. “Alright. Whatever. This is the last time I tolerate you pulling this shit, Andrea, understood?”

“Clear as mud.” She laughed, pulling Neala by the drawstrings of her sweats. “See you at practise, Diana.”

Neala pushed Andrea’s hand away before it could brush against the scarred skin of her stomach, terrified. And yet, the girl was something solid to hide behind. Thinking that Andrea could keep her promise and keep Neala alive was foolish, but maybe she’d be able to last the year. Fulfil Kayleigh’s dream of Prix De Lausanne, before she’d be found and executed. 

She’d look into her mother’s face, having proved her wrong about never dancing again. That thought alone ignited a warmth in her stomach. 

She burst into the monster’s apartment. Kayleigh moped on the couch: The other two startled. 

“Let’s go.” She said in French. Kayleigh’s gaze snapped to her, curious. “We have a competition to win and a Moriyama to tear from her throne.”

The feeling in her stomach, she realised, was hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a mESsSSsSs


	3. act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: starts getting violent (The Nest), with connotations of non-con.

Without Andrea, Neala felt oddly hollow. She was dressed in an a-line gown, as Nicki had called it, wearing heels with her hair styled. Everyone else was just as dressed up, sitting in silence at the headed out of state. 

The bus was emptier than usual. Sienna’s death in September shook the team, but they’d pulled together. Now that Andrea was hospitalised, it was terrifyingly silent. The tiny dancer took up more space then anyone realised. Kayleigh gripped the hem of her dress with terror, staring out as the bus drove onwards. The Winter Banquet was an honour to be invited to as a studio, but the Foxes knew what was in store. They had only encountered Evermore twice: At the CDP, where the interview had rocked everyone to their core and yielded an embarrassing performance from the lot of them, and Southern District Fall Eisteddfod, where they’d come back nipping at Evermore’s heels. They were hungry for revenge on Sienna’s death, desperate for retribution. 

It felt too obvious. Right after the interview, Sienna overdosed. After their come-back, Andrea was forced to confront an old demon. Now Amy would be trialled for manslaughter, Andrea would be hospitalised for the next month, minimum, and Nicki’s parents were under investigation for orchestrating the entire thing. 

She hoped Xandra would rot in hell, whilst simultaneously wishing Amy had kept her alive so Neala had time to Butcher that bitch till she was screaming and begging. 

The extremes that Neala’s mind had imagining scared her, but she found she was okay with testing her limits for Andrea. It was a new and unfamiliar sensation. 

“Kayleigh.” Albert had to be driving if Wymack was up the back with them. She handed her a flask. “We’re almost there.”

Kayleigh grabbed it greedily and drank with desperation.

“Kayleigh, if you’re incoherent then you’ll make a fool of yourself.” Neala warned. 

“Fuck it.” She spat out, clutching the flask with shaking hands. 

“You.” Wymack pointed at Neala. “Keep your damn mouth shut and keep Kayleigh in line.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Neala muttered, crossing her arms. 

“All of you!” She turned around. Six heads poked up. “Be on your best behaviour. I know you have Evermore’s guts, but we need to be the bigger person.”

“It’ll be okay.” Neala swore to Kayleigh. She nodded weakly, looking back out the window. 

*

It was not okay. 

“Knocking down troupe members was so _easy.”_ Rie gloated, standing between Neala and the rest of the room. The lights were low, the tables cleared for dancing. Kayleigh, only a few feet away, was held back by Janine. “When you all have such tragic back stories, I don’t even have to try. Overdosing, an old demon—God, it’s almost too easy, don’t you think? Boyd could go the same way as old Sienna did, Daniel could have to pay old debts, all Amy needs is the trial to go awry and little Nicki—“ She laughed, tapping her nails against her glass. “See? Easy.”

“Stay away from them.” Neala all but growled, letting it tear from her throat. “Don’t fucking touch _any_ of them.”

“Oh, but it’s too late, isn’t it?” Rie leaned to whisper in Neala’s ear. “I’ve got a doctor at Reddin who’s _very_ enthusiastic to help get your bitch back onto her feet. Maybe some reenactment therapy? Sensory deprivation?”

“Don’t.” Neala heaved, breathing heavily in and out of her nose. “ _Don’t.”_

A finger trailed along Neala’s jaw. “Would your beloved Foxes protect you as fiercely as you try to protect them, if they knew who you are?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Neala winced as Rie leaned into her. 

“Sure you do, Butcher’s daughter.” Neala felt the ground crack and shift underneath her feet, destabilising her. “ _Nataliana Wesninski._ You were meant to be mine.”

“Get away from me.” Neala gripped the edge of the table behind her, trying to stay in control. 

“You will spend the break at Evermore.” Rie snapped, finally losing her cool. “Janine will give Kayleigh your ticket. If you even think about refusing, I will make sure that Proust does her absolute worst on Andrea, and I will take down each one of your stupid, meddling troupe until they are _nothing_ and _no one_.”

Neala swung. The crack of her fist against Rie’s jaw was momentarily satisfying, but the manic glare of her eyes was enough to stop Neala from going further. The troupe was on the line. 

Janine had let Kayleigh go at Madeline and Daniel’s approach, rushing to hold Rie back. They were dragged away from one another. Neala gripped Kayleigh’s arm as Evermore’s queen and her disciples slid away. “Did you get the ticket?” She demanded in French, so no one could understand.

“Don’t go.” Kayleigh begged. “You don’t know what she’s like.”

“I have to.” Neala’s voice was surprisingly calm. “She’ll take it out on the Foxes if I don’t. I have to do this to keep you and Andrea safe. Did you get the ticket, Kayleigh?”

Kayleigh covered her face with her hands, nodding her head. 

Neala looked out over the red-and-green decor, the lights that flashed over hundreds of dancers. Once, she would have been petrified of the number of people, of the threats that Rie had issued, of people knowing who she truly was. 

Now she could only see those of Palmetto Dance, rushing towards the scene in concern and confusion. She had to protect them, at any cost. 

How things had changed in the past months. 

“I’m the Butcher’s daughter, Kayleigh.” Neala promised. “She can’t break me.”

“ _That’s who you are?”_ Kayleigh cried out. “Janine said you were running away, that you were mixed up with crime families like me, but she didn’t say—“

“Shut up, Kayleigh.” Neala warned. “Just—Shut up.”

It all dawned on the older girl, who’s face fell. “You could have been a prima ballerina.”

It was like a lock turning on a closed door. Neala swallowed, closing her eyes. Kayleigh had genuinely thought Neala could do it, but now there was no escaping the truth: Neala was going to die, and there was no escaping it. She wouldn’t run now, not when all eyes were on her and invisible knives were held to each of the Foxes’ necks. 

“Neala?”

“What?” She turned to look at her teacher. Wymack looked like she was waiting for an answer. 

“Do you want to stay?”

Kayleigh’s nailed dug into her wrist. She shook her head, and the girl’s death-grip relaxed. 

“One more punch before we go?” Nicki hinted, and was promptly punched herself by Amy. The Foxes filed out of the Winter Banquet. Neither Kayleigh nor Neala spoke during the ride back, but Kayleigh pulled her aside when they arrived back at the studio, hours later. 

“Come back.” It sounded like a prayer. Neala took the paper envelope from her hands and stuffed it in her pocket. 

“I will.” She promised. Kayleigh nodded. 

*

“You’re so stupid.” Janine lamented, driving Neala back to Evermore’s Nest from the airport. “Has Kayleigh ever mentioned it?”

“Copious amounts of times.” Neala looked out the window, seeing the expanse of West Virginia unfold before her eyes. It was all a blur. Janine did not laugh, looking dead straight as she drove. 

The Nest was an enormous theatre, with the living quarters and studios underground. The Ravens never left the place, except for performances, eisteddfods and comps. Rie was one of the few exceptions, being the niece of Tatsumi Moriyama, the principal of Evermore. Janine Moreau, being her loyal minion, accompanied her everywhere. Some argued Janine was Kayleigh’s replacement. Neala could see the scars around Janine’s wrists and knew that wasn’t true. 

The entire place reeked grandeur as Janine pulled into the parking garage. The door slammed shut behind them after Neala had clambered out of the car. Her eyes adjusted to the harsh lights as she followed Janine to a door. The stairs only went further down.

“Listen to me, and do as I tell you.” She snapped. “If you ignore my offer, then good luck getting out of here alive.”

“Rie can’t kill me.”

“She can do whatever she likes.” Janine swore. “Trust me.”

They descended down the steps. The hallway was black, with strips of red lighting underneath the skirting boards. Neala felt as though she was walking towards the entrance to Hell. Maybe she was. 

She hoped Kayleigh would keep her things safe. 

“Welcome to the Nest.” Janine murmured as she opened the door.

*

“Get up.” Rie snapped, kicking Neala’s shin. She wore black pointes, a black leotard with thin straps, a low back and mesh slits that exposed all her scars. Her lip was split, there was blood matting her hair together and she felt like one enormous bruise. 

Slowly, she got to her feet. 

“ _Fouette._ Now. Don’t stop till I tell you to.” 

Neala cough, wiping the blood on the back of her hand. She prepared and spun, her entire body throbbing with the pain. 

“Align your hips!” Rie hissed. “Your left arm is dragging behind—No, no no! Stop.” When Neala fell out of it and stumbled, she grabbed her chin and held her up. 

“See this?” Rie pushed her back. “Look at yourself in the mirror. Look. Look how pathetic you are. You can’t land a turn, you can’t spot, you’re hopeless. Whatever Kayleigh saw in you was a _lie_ , just as much of a like as Neala Josten was. Who are you?”

“Neala Josten.” Her eyes dropped to the ground until Rie grabbed her chin again. 

“Who are you?” She growled.

Neala swallowed, taking in a shaky breath. “Neala Josten.”

Rie swept her legs out from underneath her. She landed flat on her back, her head cracking against the ground and ribs screaming in protest. Moaning, she rolled onto her side, curling inwards. 

“Rie.” 

The girl turned around at the presence of her aunt. “Yes, Mistress?” 

“You have plenty of time. Don’t lose your temper.”

Rie shot a sullied glare towards Neala’s crumpled figure. 

“Nataliana Wesninski. Stand.” 

Neala dragged herself off the ground once more. Tatsumi Moriyama was taller than her, black hair swept into a low bun, skin withered with time, voice bitter and gaze soulless. Kevin Day must have known a different Tatsumi

“You are a disappointment to your mother’s name.” Was all she said. She looked at Rie, who smiled sadistically and lead Neala to the barre. There was a ledge a foot off the ground beneath the wooden railings.

“Oversplits.”

Neala hesitated. “I can’t.” 

“ _Now_.”

Neala breathed deeply, one foot on the lower barre and holding to the uppers as she slid shakily down to the ground. She couldn’t get anywhere near where Rie wanted her to be, sweat hands slipping off the barre. She grit her teeth. 

“Lower!” Rie shoved down on her shoulders. Neala cried out, curling inwards as she pushed harder. 

“You’re useless.” She spat, kicking Neala’s legs. “You’re hideous. You will never dance professionally.”

“Fuck you.” Neala gasped. 

Rie’d had enough. She kneed Neala in the stomach, and like a television screen, everything faded to black. 

*

“This will be fun.” Rie whispered into Neala’s ear. 

Sprawled on Kayleigh’s old bed, Neala had one limb tied to each post of Kayleigh’s bed with pointe shoe ribbons which was -- theatrical, to say the least. She was splayed on her stomach, head tilted to one side. Janine sat beside her, ready to hold her down.

“What are you doing.” Neala demanded, fighting against the ribbons. They were _ribbons_ , surely she would be able to escape from them. 

“Cry your little heart out, Nataliana.” Rie straddled Neala’s back, facing towards her legs. “I’ll wring out the pillow and use your tears to cleanse my skin: I heard salt’s great for exfoliation. How does that sound for you?”

“You’re fucking sick.” Neala managed. 

She cut across Neala’s calf. “Wrong answer.”

She cut down the back of Neala’s legs in neat stripes, but it became truly agonising as she sliced at Neala’s callouses on her feet, digging into her soles and toes. Every movement Neale dared was excruciating. 

“Breaking Kayleigh’s foot and now this?” She gasped. “You must have a very intense foot fetish.”

“Shut up.” She growled, moving rapidly. Neala felt the bloodied knife at the back of her neck, ready to cut her spinal chord if she dug in any farther. “Shut the fuck up, you stupid fucking bitch.” 

Neala just laughed.

*

“Take this.” Janine urged when Neala woke up. 

How many weeks had it been? She had no clue. There were no clocks, no perception of time, no sun, and certainly no time to rest. Rie slashed at her in every spare moment she could. 

“Are you trying to poison me?” Neala’s voice was hoarse with screaming. 

“It’s the emergency pill.” She hissed, voice low. “Can’t you feel what she let happen yesterday?”

Neala sat up, though it almost killed her to do so. Janine was right: The throbbing rawness of her lower torso was unlike anything she’d ever felt before. 

She felt sick. 

“She’s trying to get you pregnant.” Janine warned. “So you won’t be able to dance.”

“She thinks I wouldn’t abort it?” Neala swallowed the pill hastily, washing it down with water. 

“Doesn’t matter.” Janine whispered. “I’ll bring you this every time she lets it happen.”

“Thank you.” Neala choked out, hands clutched to her chest. “Thank you.”

Janine slipped away into the darkness without a word. Neala curled into a ball, feeling filthy and violated, drifting in and out of nightmare-woven sleep. She couldn’t bring herself to relax again, however, not when she knew the door would soon swing open and the terrors would begin all over again. 

*

Wymack said nothing as Neala painstakingly hoisted herself into her SUV. 

“When is Andrea being released?” She asked. 

“Two days.”

Neala relaxed into her chair. 

“You look horrific.” Wymack didn’t usually state the obvious, so Neala guessed she had something else to say. “I know where you were. Kayleigh told me.”

“I figured she would.” Neala said, then coughed. The effort had pain lancing across her body and she winced, curling into a ball. She wanted to ask about the Catamount Eisteddfod in two weeks but daren’t ask. She was too scared of being told no. Rie had beaten her black and blue, but she still itched to dance. “How is everyone.”

“Charge your phone and find out. They’re all in New York: Last I heard, Kayleigh was dragging everyone to the gym every morning and it was forecasted to snow.”

Neala hummed. 

She found an odd settling in her chest at the sight of Palmetto Dance’s studios, and wondered if this was the feeling of returning home. She’d never stayed somewhere long enough to start being comfortable with its familiarity. 

She knew it was a red flag. She was meant to run when she felt even the slightest feeling of comfort towards a place, or affection towards a person. That’s how she would survive. 

But was it really living?

They took the elevator rather than the stairs. Wymack disappeared into her office for a minute whilst Neala took the time to reacquaintance herself. The studios, the tarquette, the lockers in the changing room. Everything was the same. She walked herself to the tenth locker and remembered when Kayleigh had showed her this for the first time. 

_“This is all yours. Ordered to your size.”_

_Confused, Neala opened it. Inside was—everything a dancer could wish for. Stacks of tights, three pairs of pointes, three pairs of flats. Three black leotards hung from the mounted rod, and stretch bands hung beside them. A bottle with “Josten” embossed into the plastic sat on a shelf, and next to it, was a set of folded sweats. She pulled out the sweatshirt._

_J O S T E N_

_She swallowed, suddenly queasy. “Why?”_

_“You’re a Fox now.” Kayleigh said, like that meant anything._

It made perfect sense now, though. Neala pulled the sweatshirt out, having only previously warn it to competitions. The others wore theirs to death, and Neala finally felt the sense of pride that they shared when wearing their studio’s name. 

She stood at Wymack’s door. “Why are we called Foxes?”

Wymack leaned back in her arm chair, holding the tip of her pen to her lip. “The media coined it. Foxes have a bad reputation, but those who actually look after them know their worth. Elegant, cunning, tireless, loyal.”

 _Fitting,_ Neala thought. 

“Is that all you’re thinking, under there?” Wymack’s eyebrow arched amusedly. It was a tired look, but she was amused none the less. 

“Am I a Fox?” 

“You were a Fox the moment you signed that paper, Josten. And you’ve done more than enough to earn your place amongst them, here.”

She hid her shaking hands. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Get lost.” She waved her off. “Albert will be here to patch you up in ten minutes, once he’s finished with his last appointment.”

Neala nodded and slipped out. She found herself in the main studio, and choked on a surprised gasp as she saw herself in the mirror. 

One eye blackened and swollen, bruises littering the visible parts of her arms and legs. Under the sleeves were bandages from where the ribbons rubbed her skin raw. To walk on the wounds Rie had cut into her feet made her feel delirious with pain. When had she last eaten, or slept for more than two hours? She didn’t know. She didn’t remember the day, nor date, let alone the time. 

But was infinitely more horrifying was the auburn of her hair. She stumbled close to the mirror and pulled at it, almost pulling it out of her skull. It matched her roots perfectly: They’d even done her eyebrows. She was the spitting image of her mother, except she’d never seen her mother abused like this. 

The bandage under her eye stung gently, and Neala wondered if they’d burned her cheek: She peeled it off slowly, but screamed when she saw what was there. Her voice cracked, blisteringly sore. Wymack was at the door within moments but she wasn’t fast enough to stop Neala smash the floor-to-ceiling mirror with her fist: Shards rained down, and she dropped to her knees to find the biggest one that she could and slice the disgusting thing off her cheek—

“Neala, no!” Wymack carried her back, her arms flailing as she screamed in outrage. She dropped the sharp when it cut her fingers. Wymack carried her out into the infirmary and laid her on the bed, holding tight onto her. 

Neala still had her arms around her teach when she relaxed, giving in. 

For the first time, she let herself cry. She’d fought against any sign of weakness in the Nest, and refused when Rie had told her she knew who she was at the Winter Banquet. She didn’t cry when Kayleigh worked her brutally towards the edge of insanity, or when her first major performance after the interview with Keary Ferdinand was a flop. She hadn’t even cried when her father had died in the car, whispering his last words before his grip on her shoulder relaxed, nor when she’d cremated him, alone on a sandy cove between two towering cliffs. 

Her head fell against Wymack’s shoulder, and she let it. She was held close well after the waves of desperation had passed. Tears stung the cuts along her jaw. 

“We’re not going to let them get away with this.” Wymack swore, all stern eyes and hard-edged truths. 

Neala nodded slowly and let herself close her eyes. 

*  
She woke in Wymack’s apartment, neck aching from sleeping at a bad angle on her teacher’s couch. Voices murmured in her kitchen, and she recognised Albert’s soft baritone. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, swinging her legs over the edge of the couch. She hissed softly when the scabs on the undersides of her feet stretched, but stubbornly walked herself over to kitchen doorway. 

They were talking over black coffee. “Can I have some?” She asked. She still felt woozy. 

“About time, kid.” Wymack grumbled. “It’s midday.” 

Neala blanched. 

“Diana,” Albert chastised. “Be nice.” 

“That _was_ being nice.” She muttered into the rim of her mug. 

“Some coffee and food, and then we’ll patch you up. How’s that sound?” Albert asked. Neala nodded, shuffling to sit at the kitchen table. The morning papers were spread across it, the news channel on. 

“Just checking Rie didn’t put anything out into the news.” Wymack assured her. “Found nothing so far.”

“She’d only publicise it if I actually signed the contract.” Neala said hoarsely. “I didn’t. They couldn’t make me do it. I’m still a Fox.” 

“I know.” Wymack said. “I know that, Neala.” 

She relaxed. 

Coffee was welcome, but the food threatened to come back up again. She chewed on it slowly, knowing there wasn’t really a rush. The others weren’t flying back from New York until five, and Andrea was only being released tomorrow. 

Albert drove her to the studio, Wymack going separately. It was only when the infirmary door was locked that Neala said shakily: “Do you have a pregnancy test?”

Albert paused and closed his eyes. “Can I hug you?”

Neala grit her teeth and nodded stiffly. His arms were loose around her shoulders: She remembered being held to her father’s chest and could almost smell his cheap cologne. 

“I have a test. I’ll give it to you to take whilst I set up my supplies, okay?” He stood back, cupping Neala’s cheek gently. “One second.”  
He put a plaster over Neala’s tattooed cheek before handing her a cardboard box he sourced. “There.”

Neala came out of the bathroom five minutes later, relieved. Albert took the test and allowed himself to breath after he saw the negative result. 

“Throw it.” She said, taking off her studio sweatshirt but kept her large shirt on, painstakingly pulling off her pants. He did what she asked before getting to work. He felt for broke ribs and cleaned her wrists and the abrasions on her scalp, checking for concussion. When he saw her calves and feet, he broke. 

“Fucking dammit.” He shook his head, covering his head for a moment. Neala let him. “Every time I think my Foxes are on their way to becoming better, they get torn back down. It kills me—every time.”

“So why are you still here?”

His hands dropped. “I can’t give up. Not now. Not ever. Me, Diana, Bee—We’re not going to rest until you each get what you deserve.”

Neala’s chest swelled. _I’m sorry._ It was her fault that the Foxes would hurt when she was killed: She let herself stay too long. She never thought about how others might become collateral damage in the bloody chase that was her life, but now those who were hurt were people she cared about.

_I’m so fucking sorry._

*

Kayleigh stared at her. 

“You gonna say anything?” Neala prompted. 

“You look like Janine used to.” She wasn’t expecting that. 

“Used to?”

“When she would fight back.” Kayleigh hung her head. “It took months for her to learn her place. She gave in eventually. Everyone does.”

Neala hadn’t. Then again, it’d only been two weeks. “I didn’t sign the contract.” 

“Janine told me.” Kayleigh affirmed. “She also told me about this.” She tapped where her two was. Neala grit her teeth. “Rie wants everyone to know who you are. The hair, the tattoo—“  
“She’s trying to get me found, I know, I know.” Neala snapped, feeling flighty and anxious. Inspiring the empathetic side of Kayleigh to surface was a rare and uncomfortable experience. “We’re going to win this, you know.”

“And then you’re going to die.” Kayleigh whispered. Neala said nothing. 

“Hey—! Oh.” Nicki froze when she saw Neala. “Oh, Neala, _Jesus.”_

Amy slid into the car holding a tray of four coffees. Neala had been wondering how Kayleigh had got the other two to stall for the few minutes they just had alone. She was grateful for the coffee handed to her. 

“The others are going to throw a fit when they see you.” Nicki said. “Wymack said to brace ourselves, but—“

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” Neala turned the ignition of Andrea’s car on. 

“Don’t.” Nicki choked out. “Don’t say that. We know you’re not.” 

She elected to say nothing instead and drove ahead. The strange ache in her chest intensified: It was almost constant now. Being cared about, and having people show that affection—It was making the idea of dying almost too horrible to contemplate. 

She glanced in the rear-view and saw her blue eyes: The shudder ran down her spine involuntarily. She tried not to think about it, instead asking Nicki to tell her about New York. The stories spanned the whole length of the ride and took some of the weight off Neala’s shoulders. She’d gone to make sure they were happy, and it sounded like they had been. 

When she trudged into her apartment, Nicki, Kayleigh and Amy in tow, Madeline was waiting for her. Furious. 

“Look at you.” She whispered. “Oh my fucking god.” 

“It’s worse than I thought it was.” Daniel muttered from the couch. Alistair shook his head.  
Only Remi approached and saw Neala’s terse nod, letting his hands rest on her shoulders. “You did what you had to do.”

“You can’t seriously be _encouraging_ this, Remi.” Daniel stood, outraged. Nicki was nodding in agreement, Amy impassive and Kayleigh off to the side. She knew too much to involve herself into this conversation. 

“Neala had her reasons, I’m sure.” Remi crossed his arms. “I’m going to respect them, and you ought to, too.” 

“Come here.” Madeline hugged Neala tightly: Alistair snorted at the shocked look on Neala’s face. 

“She’s still just as much of a freak as she’s always been, guys.” He pointed out. 

Neala pursed her lips. “Thanks. But—“ She ground her teeth together. “I’m still the same person. Even with the hair and the eyes.” Before she could hesitate, she pulled off the bandage on her cheek. “And this. I’m still the same Neala.” 

Daniel gagged and Madeline held Neala’s battered face, looking at it in horror. Remi held the cross at his neck with one hand as Alistair jumped from the couch, spluttering. Nicki and Amy had both been warned, but Nicki still flinched and grabbed onto her cousin. 

“It’s disgusting.” Alistair declared. “I’ll give you the money to take it off.” 

Neala shook her head at the blond. “No. I can’t have her retaliate against you guys anymore. Sienna, Andrea—It was all Rie. I refuse to antagonise her if she’s going to be a coward and take it out on you.” 

“Neala? Promising not to antagonise someone? It’s a note-worthy moment in history.” Nicki said, always cracking the jokes. Her smile vanished. “But seriously, Neala, we’re your troupe. We can take our own hits. You’re a part of this family now. If you want to get rid of the tattoo, then get rid of it, and we’ll deal with what happens when it comes.”

Neala closed her eyes. _You’re a part of this family now._ “Thank you, Nicki.”

“We’re going to ruin her.” Kayleigh spoke, having been silent for the past hour. “We’re going to take everything away from her, and then she won’t have anything to threaten us with.” Her eyes pierced into Neala’s with anger. “And we’re going to do it, starting from now.”

One by one, Neala’s fingers curled into careful fists. Kayleigh’s ferocity invigorated her: The Foxes’ passionate cries inspired her. 

Rie would no longer be the Queen of dance and keep her reign of terror, even if it was the last thing Neala did.


	4. act III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gets very graphic now (Baltimore). Violence, blood, etc, mentions of rape/non-con

Neala almost laughed when the car drove up beside her. The window rolled down and she leaned on her elbows, letting the corner of her mouth curl up. “This is quite an upgrade.”

Andrea said nothing, staring straight ahead. Neala took that as a sign, clambering into the passenger seat. 

“Are we waiting for the others?” 

She stomped on the accelerator in lieu of replying. Neala put her seatbelt on and one foot up on her seat, curling her arm around her knee. When Andrea noticed—which was pretty instantaneously—she shoved Neala’s knee down. She grinned at the girl. 

“Stop looking at me like that.” She snapped. 

“Like what?” Neala asked. 

She said nothing, instead giving Neala a set of keys. Car keys. For the car they were in. 

Neala was the one rendered speechless, clutching the keys to her chest. _Stay. Run. Stay. Run. Stay. Stay._

“Stop it.” Andrea’s voice snapped her out of it. “They’re just keys.”

“Don’t lie to a liar.” She cleared her throat, hating how much a set of keys was destabilising her. “We both know they’re not just keys.”

Andrea would never thank her for the money Neala had donated for her new car, but the way her palms spread over the leather of the steering wheel and the slight inhale every time the engine revved showed Neala her appreciation for it. Both of Andrea’s cars had been bought with blood money. Knowing Andrea, the tradition would probably continue long after Neala was dead. 

Neala felt it was owed. She was the reason all the cars were trashed: Her and her loud mouth at the last competition.

They stopped in a garage underground, where Andrea killed the engine and clambered out. _Maybe I’m going to die sooner than I’d thought._ It was a thought, but Neala thought nothing of it. Andrea never broke a promise. When they were alone, she was the safest she’d ever felt, for as long as she could remember. 

“Where are we?” She followed Andrea towards the stairs that lead them to the surface: The sidewalk, somewhere in Palmetto city. She recognised the building opposite them instantly. 

“Wymack has rented us a garage to park in when we’re at the studio from now on.” The hand on the small of Neala’s back went almost unnoticed as the stepped out to cross the road. “Come on.”

“First you tell me we’re going to Eden’s with the others,” Neala started. “Now we’re at the studio and you didn’t even bring Kayleigh—“

“Shut up.” She grunted. “You talk too much.” It was said without heat. 

“Truth for truth,” It was Neala’s turn. “What would make dancing worth your effort?” 

Andrea shoved in through the front doors of the studio, going straight for the stairs. Neala followed dutifully and wasn’t disheartened: She knew Andrea was only thinking of her answer. 

She remembered Andrea’s manic gleam of the eye as she’d stood over Neala, crumbled on the floor after she’d tripped on Andrea’s foot in Millport. She remembered the first trip to Eden’s, the cracker dust, the house in Columbia the morning after. She remembered Andrea’s infliction of interest when she’d spoken French, and then German. Even clearer then those memories were those when Andrea’s anger had surfaced through the medication: Rie at CDP, Neala seeing her naked and sprawled on the bed as Amy brought a chair down on Xandra’s head, crushing her skull. The intrigue as her fingers spread across Neala’s torso, feeling the scars and realising what Neala sounded like as she told the real truth, as she promised to protect Kayleigh. 

Neala shut the main studio’s door behind her. 

“If dance could make me feel anything, I’d care about it.” Andrea switched the studio lights on, drawing the curtains over the mirrors.

“But you hate dance—That’s a feeling.” She took off her socks, meeting Andrea by the barre.

“I don’t hate it.” She turned, looking right into Neala’s eyes. It made her shiver every time, for reasons unexplainable. “I couldn’t give less of a shit about it.”

“Could there be a way to make it interesting?” Neala hinted. 

“You’ve used up your question.” Andrea said. “Do you want to practise or not?” 

“Is that yours?” Neala risked a smile. Andrea threw her a flat gaze as she sat by the piano, lifting the lid. “What—you _play_?”

“And the sky is blue. Have any other ridiculously obvious statements you want to share?”

Neala glared until it was obvious Andrea wasn’t budging. She prepared, and felt her skin flush red as she saw Andrea watching her, playing with the same flourish as Betsy when they warmed up every morning. She sped up when she wanted to and slowed down when she felt like it, keeping Neala on edge. 

Andrea shut the lid when they’d run through warm-ups and sat by the radio, twisting hair around her finger. Neala stood in the middle of the room after a mouthful of water. “You learn from Betsy, don’t you. That’s where you go on Wednesdays.”

“Point for Josten.” Andrea drawled. “Why do you think I bother?”

“Since when have you cared what I think?” Neala challenged. “Besides, I don’t just think—I know. It’s for therapeutic reasons. It’s an outlet, like fighting with Remi and sitting on the roof. I know you better than you think I do.”

Andrea stared. Neala stared back, until she grew restless. 

“I want to practise Dance of the Flower Sellers.”

Andrea rose an eyebrow. “That’s a duet you do with Kayleigh.”

“I can practise on my own.” She said, defensive. 

So Andrea found it on the disk, and Neala set her mind to losing herself. It wasn’t hard, but she also was not used to practising without her shoes on: It was almost freeing. Once she threw her leg too high and laughed at how much easier it was whilst not on the tips of her toes. She was breathless and flushed. 

“Do you know the next part?”

Neala hadn’t realised the music had dimmed, or that Andrea was now standing in front of her. 

“It’s not in the two-minute time frame we practise, but yes.” She admitted. “I know it. The Don Quixote duet is too good not to learn.” 

Andrea went back to the radio, toed off her shoes and rewound twenty seconds before returning to Neala’s side. At Neala’s look, she rolled her eyes. “Well?”

“Do _you_ know it?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?” Her hands held onto Neala’s waist lightly. 

She was incredible to dance with: Neala barely had to think in order to keep up, because she knew exactly what she was doing. Even the lifts—She felt as though she was flying. She was almost scared of Andrea being able to feel how fast her heart was racing. Together they spun, and Neala knew that this was what she wished she could do, forever. She'd never felt so liberated. It was enough to distract her from who she was, enough for her to forget the life she'd lead. She felt the need to dance like the need to breathe.

"Junkie." Andrea muttered, breathing heavily through her nose. The music had cut off but Neala had barely noticed. She flushed, but her face was already red, sweat dripping down her neck. 

“Truth for truth.” Neala swallowed, uneasy with anticipation. “Show me your scars.”

“I—“ She held her tongue. There was no need to freak out, truly: Andrea had already felt them. But exposing herself felt—intimate. Her hands shook as she reached for the hem of her shirt. All she wore was a plain, white bra, lace trimmings along the edges, and it stood out against her flushed skin. There was an undistinguishable look on Andrea’s face as she looked at the carnage ravaged across Neala’s skin: her fingers flew to the pucker on her collarbone from the gunshot, but her hand didn’t stay still, her fingertips continuing down the arching knife slits, the messy stitch scars, the roughness of the gravel burn that reached down to her navel. 

Something burned in Andrea’s eyes: She could feel it in her own stomach. 

“Yes or no?” 

“Yes.” Neala murmured. 

The kiss was hot—Andrea's hands, the breath that washed over Neala's skin—everything was _hot_. They were both out of breath after the duet, sweaty, hearts racing. The room itself was suddenly unbearably humid, Andrea right at the centre of it. Andrea’s hands grabbed Neala’s wrists and shoved her hands deep into her pockets. Neala understood and curled her fists, making sure her hands wouldn’t move. 

A hand curled around Neala’s neck as teeth clashed and she gasped shakily, dizzy with how intoxicating it was. 

Andrea shoved her back, looking away. 

“Andrea—“ Neala started. 

“Go.” Her voice was hoarse. “I hate you. Just _go_.” 

Neala snatched her shirt off the floor and left, the feeling of Andrea’s lips, the nip of her teeth and fingernails dragging down her neck keeping her heart racing as she ran along home. 

_Don’t look back. Don’t slow down. Don’t trust anyone._

She snuck into her flat, careful not to disturb Madeline as she hung up her coat and toed off her shoes, heading straight to bed without a shower. 

The Maserati’s purring engine, dancing with Andrea’s hands around her waist, breathing the same air as her, even for a moment—These things kept her awake, staring at the ceiling as her heart continued to pound. God, when had things changed? Why? 

She couldn’t bear the thought of picking up and going now, after everything, but—she was a liar, a runner, and always had been. Befriending the Foxes, signing the contract, getting herself mixed up in feuds and other people’s fights—all were stupid things to do. But kissing one of them—accepting keys, touches, promises—it was unspeakably ludicrous. If she had been looking for a reason to leave, now she had one that couldn’t be fought with. 

_But it’s Andrea,_ she reminded herself. She cared about nothing. Losing Neala would be just losing a blip on the girl’s radar. They were both safe, so long as it meant nothing. 

_Until you are all nothing and no one_. Neala remembered Rie’s angry words, finding herself drifting back to past conversations on more than one occasion. 

Neala was the only one who would amount to nothing, and she would make sure of it. 

 

*

“Kiss my ass!” Daniel yelled, unheard over the crowd. “Yeah, that’s fucking right, you’re all a bunch of sore losers!” They yelled and cursed at her, angry at how easily they’d beat the Birmingham Studio’s scores. 

Neala was fucking petrified, but refused to let it show. Andrea looked at her, standing next to her. The way she could see through Neala’s facade was too much: She’d already said her silent goodbyes. 

The crowd was closing in. The last she saw of Andrea was the flicker of confusion, quirking her eyebrows as her eyes narrowed. Then a wall of people separated them, and Neala was dragged away. 

_Thank you. You were amazing._ And she had been. Neala hadn't been able to take her eyes off her. Andrea had boosted their over-all score beyond belief. 

She dropped her bag and parted with her sweatshirt, knowing that Andrea would understand the warning. She couldn’t help but think about how Kayleigh would tell her story: She’d probably talk in past tense, whilst Neala would still be alive. 

Natalie Wesninski liked to take her time, and her lackeys were no different. Neala had caused each of them personal grief, and add the slander that Neala had slashed against her mother’s name and you had vendettas against her and her father that would follow each of the Butcher’s team into the grave. 

Neala was pushed into the police car, hands immediately locked behind her head with cuffs. 

“Look at the little ballerina.” Leonard Malcom said, with a sickening tone of affection. He was kneeling on the cracked leather beside her, smiling. “Isn’t this exciting!”

Roma Malcom slid into the front seat, Jacqueline Plank lurching the car into motion. The chaos of the riot barricading their movement. For a moment, Neala hoped that she’d be seen, but the windows were tinted beyond belief, and the crowd parted for the depart of a police vehicle within seconds. 

“It’s going to be such a heartwarming family reunion, little Nataliana. Junior.” He hissed, laughing. “Where’s Daddy?”

“He’s dead.” Neala said, keeping her voice as flat as she could as she watched Birmingham Theatres roll further from sight. She desperately wished to see her family once more, their warm eyes and familiar smiles. 

“It’s too bad that I don’t believe you. I worked a real number on him last time: I thought that’d be the last of it” He tipped Neala’s chin up with a knife, produced from somewhere unknown. Neala swallowed, feeling the tip dig into her throat. 

“He’s dead.” She gasped out as the knife dug deeper. “He died in Seattle. You killed him. I burned his body.” 

Leo moved to sit over Neala’s legs as she began to buck away from the knife. “You’re a performer now: Be more _convincing_.” 

Her face stung, realising tears had escaped and ran along the slit in Neala’s cheek. She watched, revolted as Leo licked the blood from his knife, staining his lips red. He laughed manically. “Tastes like fear. Are you scared, Junior?”  
“Fuck you.” She rasped, throat swollen. She prayed that her Foxes were safe. “He’s dead, okay?”

“Liar, just like him.” He dug the knife under her eye and she screamed. “Where’s Daddy?” 

“He’s dead, he _is!”_  
“Roma, honey.” Leo clicked his fingers. Roma was looking at Neala with a ferocious glean to her eyes, lips a flattened line as she watched her brother dismantle every inch of strength Neala had within her. She popped out the car’s dashboard lighter with a click of her nails, and Leo admired it once it was handed to him. 

“Don’t.” Neala begged weakly. 

“Stay still, Nataliana.” He leaned his weight on her chest to keep her still. “I’m doing you a favour.”

Her voice cracked as she shrieked, high and shrill with pain. She remembered what her father’s burning corpse smelled like, sitting in the driver’s seat of the SUV, the charred bones still warm in her backpack as she’d walked to the rocky edges of the cove to dump what was left of him into the ocean. It all flashed before her eyes as she smelled her own burning flesh, strangled by the forearm against her neck: It felt like the smoke of the bonfire that had choked her. 

“Where is your father!” 

“He’s dead!” She thrashed against him. “I burned him myself and dumped his bones in the ocean! Please, please believe me.” She sobbed with relief as the weight from her chest vanished, but the blistering skin that’d once been her _4_ tattoo sizzled, excruciatingly painful.

“I believe her.” Roma said. Leo nodded. 

“Such a shame.” He tilted his head. “Wanted to strap him to the bed and let him bleed out: I could have made it go on for days.”

“You’re sick.” Neala choked out. “You’re _sick.”_

“Such a shame that your mother said no fucking.” Leo grabbed Neala’s chest and she held deathly still as he leant into her ear. “I heard what Rie let happen to you. Your mother wants to know if you’re carrying a child.” 

“No.” Neala whispered. “I’m not.”

“If you’re lying,” He murmured against her neck. When he drew back, his cheek was smeared with her blood. “You will not fare well.”

“Why would I lie?” She spat blood out of her mouth and it landed on his shirt. He scoffed with disgust. “I’m not going to fare well regardless.”

“Getting smarter, isn’t she?” Leo laughed. 

“Just cut her tongue out.” Jacqueline muttered. 

Neala swallowed uneasily. 

“Jacqueline just prefers silence or screaming.” Leo grinned. “No appreciation for good banter. Such a shame. You and I could have had a family together, in a different world. If that bastard hadn’t got into your head and taken something that wasn’t his.”

“I would never have let you.” She gasped, close to vomiting. 

“No one _lets_ me do anything.” He snarled. “I do what I want. Speaking of! Let’s start on all this clean canvas, shall we?”

Neala’s couldn’t do it. Nataliana buried her with Andrea’s whispers and soft kisses, Madeline’s hugs and Nicki’s laughter. If she left Neala behind, she’d have no connection to the Foxes: They would be forever left out of her mess, like she wished they’d always been. They’d be safe. 

Nataliana was satisfied by this, and braced for the pain. 

“Let’s go home, Junior.”

*

Andrea turned slowly to look at Kayleigh, who’s figure shook violently. She’d be blown over by the slightest puff of wind. 

They all sat within the bus, sombre and scared. Neala had vanished but left her bag behind: Within it were all the things ever given to her. She’d still been wearing the JOSTEN sweatshirt when Andrea saw her last, but it’d been found strewn on the ground, soaked with beer and gutter water. These things sat next to Andrea, Neala’s phone in hand. On it was a count-down, and guilt sat on Andrea’s chest. She hadn’t felt like this for so long that she was finding it extremely difficult to keep in control of herself. 

Kayleigh had been looking over Andrea’s shoulder when she’d inspected the phone. Now she drew herself into a ball, hiding her face behind her hands. 

“I’m so sorry, Andrea.”

Andrea’s stomach clenched. “What for.”

“She made be promise that I wouldn’t tell.” Kayleigh looked up, expression wrecked. “That caller ID: That’s Baltimore. She’s been taken home.”

Andrea’s tongue was sandpaper against the roof of her mouth, her teeth grounding so loudly that it was all she could hear—except the excessive throbbing of her heart against her ribs. “What do you know.”

The rest of the troupe was irrelevant: Andrea could barely see out of the pin-point tunnel that was directed on Kayleigh’s terrified face. 

“I asked you a _question!”_ She roared, charging forwards. “Where is she?”

There was chaos: Andrea felt hands on her skin, pulling and yanking her back. Kayleigh choked underneath her hands, scrabbling at Andrea’s wrists. 

“Enough!” Wymack yelled, hoisting Andrea up. Her arms were wrapped around Andrea’s waist and stayed there: She fought the rising bile in her throat: She wasn’t the priority right now. She needed to find Neala. 

“I made a promise to protect her, so you’d better fucking tell me where she is.”

“Andrea, you won’t be able to save her.” Kayleigh choked out, rubbing her neck. “Her mother is in Baltimore.”

_Liar, liar, liar,_ Andrea’s mind sung, taunting her. She knew Neala’s truth wasn’t the whole truth, but she hadn’t realised how off she was. 

“You saw the red leotard in the bottom drawer of her things. That was her mother’s. Natalie Wesninski. The Butcher of Baltimore.”

The others recoiled in horror: It was a famous name in the dance world. The press and police alike had never found anything more incriminating on the ex-ballerina, but Kayleigh would have seen exactly what the Moriyama’s more trusted weapon was capable of. The stories couldn’t be proved, but they were horrific nonetheless. Andrea never remembered her having a daughter. 

“Her father stole her before she could be sold to Evermore. She would have been like me and Janine. He stole her and a good portion of Moriyama money, humiliating his wife and her circle. They ran for years: Nataliana said her father had died about a year before we found her in Milport.” Kayleigh’s green gaze flitted up to Andrea. “She’s dead. I’m sorry, Andrea. She’s lived through a lot, but there is no way she will live through this. She would have wanted to thank you all. I think she was holding out on a few more weeks.”

Andrea remembered dancing with her, kissing her, driving beside her. Her hair, soft and curled, lips pliant, smile devious and eyes paranoid. Every inch of her a paradox: An honest truth. She had whispered stories untold to anyone else, shared who she wished she could be with Andrea. She had been so real, and now she was gone.

Andrea’s body ached. Wymack hauled her outside of the bus once she realised Kayleigh had nothing else to say, leaning her against the cold metal. 

“Don’t touch me again.” Andrea snapped. 

“I’m sorry.” The woman held up her hands in surrender. “But I can’t afford you to lose control. We’ll go to Baltimore until we know, okay?” 

Andrea shuddered, needing her knives, needing to punch _something_. 

She needed to hold Neala, but knew that she’d never get the chance, not even at a morgue: The best butchers were those who never left a trace. 

“Andrea?”

She simply nodded and dragged herself back onto the bus in silence. 

*

Nataliana choked, waking up in a cold, dank room. She was on the floor, lying in a pool of her own secretions. 

“You pissed yourself.” Leo said, amused from where he sat on a chair. “Charming.” 

She struggled to sit up to look at her hands: Blisters had swollen and distorted their shape, small cuts between them still oozing blood. Her legs were over a similar state, the undersides of her feet horrific. She stood up, slowly, and cried out as she tried to walk.  
A door closed. She shut her eyes. She was out of time. 

“I distinctly remember saying you would never dance again, so long as I lived.”

“Always falling short of your promises.” Nataliana croaked. “Even ones to yourself.”  
Her mother’s hand grabbed her hair and threw her to the ground where she collapsed in a heap. She rolled onto her back as her mother knelt over her, straddling her. 

Blue eyes, auburn hair. She was staring into a mirror: A withered, furious mirror, but a mirror nonetheless.

“I have waited _years_ ,” She hissed. “—Years! And now the moment has come, and you bring up _promises?_ You will regret ever opening your mouth, Nataliana.” She scoffed. “You don’t deserve that name.”

“Good.” She gasped. “I hate it.” 

“God, I wish your father was alive to watch this.” She tilted her daughter’s head from side to side, seeing the massacre that Leo had made of her cheeks. “He was always weakened by you. I could have beaten him black and blue every day for eternity, but as soon as I laid a hand on you, he lost it. Bastard.” She snapped. “Do you know how much the two of you cost me? The years of searching, the slander against my name: Lady Moriyama almost lost her faith in me: I almost lost my entire empire, thanks to you and your scheming fucker of a father.”

“I hope it ruined you.” Nataliana breathed out, resigning herself into the cool concrete beneath her. 

The floor couldn’t swallow her, though, no matter how hard she wished it would. Especially as her mother leaned down over her, digging her nails into her cheeks. She cried out. “I have been dreaming of this moment.” Suddenly, the weight of her vanished. Nataliana blinked. 

“Well?” 

She slowly lifted herself off the floor. 

“I thought about it as you were being escorted here.” She was handed her axe, edge blunt with overuse. The silver glinted in the horrid, flickering lights. “How could I make you suffer? Physical, obviously, but it’d been so long—I wanted something deeper than that.” She clucked her tongue. Nataliana trembled. “That stupid bitch—Ria, whatever her name is—already had you raped, so I didn’t want to just _copy_ , you know? Then it hit me.” Her mother smiled, walking slowly towards her. Nataliana’s back hit the wall. Her mother’s finger tilted up her chin. “I wanted you to hurt on every visceral, tangible level. I wanted to take away all that was dear to you and shatter every ounce of strength you have.”

Nataliana stayed against the wall as she watched Natalie walk back towards Bella Dimaccio, who handed her a pair of pointes. The axe screeched as it was dragged along the floor. Her mother threw the shoes at her. 

“Put them on.”

Her hands shook as she squeezed her feet into the shoes, without supports or tights: The satin was stained with blood instantly. She could barely tie the ribbons. 

“I’m going to make you dance until you hate it.” Natalie whispered into her daughter’s ear. “I’ll make you regret you ever thought you could be as good as I was. And then I’ll make you regret being alive.” 

Leo pulled her up onto her pointes and she screamed, the pain of the blisters and cuts unbearable: Her mother lifted her leg into an arabesque until her hips were in agony, being pushed too far. She used the tip of her knife at Nataliana’s neck to force her to bend backwards, and forced her to stay there as she criss-crossed her blade across Nataliana’s stomach. 

“Please,” She sobbed, unable to breathe as she was spun around on her feet, surroundings leering from side to side when stopped. She leaned over to vomit and almost passed out with how viciously it racked her body. “ _Please_ —“

“Shut _up!”_ Natalie roared, backhanding Nataliana across her burned cheek. She stumbled, landing against the wall and sliding to the floor. “You will never be anything more than a bag of bones in the ocean, just like your father. No one will _ever_ know your name, or care to. You are _nothing_.”

“Nat—“ Leo called out, just as the rumbling from upstairs grew close. Gunshots. 

Nataliana laid down on the floor as gunfire sprayed out, the room melting into chaos. 

Nataliana struggled up once more, gasping for air. The dark figures had Natalie on her knees in the centre of the room: The rest of her circle were dead or had vanished out of the escape route. 

Stephanie Hatford was just as brusque as Nataliana had thought she’d been, short and muscular stature, wearing her customary grim expression. 

“Fuck you.” Natalie gasped, outraged. “How could you—“

Stephanie shot her in the stomach: She screamed. “That was for my brother.”

Nataliana made a weak sound as her mother fell to the ground. Stephanie looked over at her and incredulousness possessed her. 

“Nataliana?”

“I want to shoot her.” She croaked. “Please, let me.” 

“You’re in no state to—“

She pulled herself to her feet and stumbled over. Stephanie handed her the gun without a word and Nataliana forced her mother to look at her as she aimed the gun at her mother’s throat. 

“Another broken promise.” She rasped out, and fired three times. The body jerked, blood splattering all over her. The smell was sickening, the sight of her mother’s life-less eyes more haunting then anything she’d ever dreamed. 

It was at that moment that her body gave way, the last thing she remembered being her aunt’s voice, calling out to her. 

_My mother’s dead,_ she thought woozily, and felt the strange temptation to laugh. The darkness took hold instead, and she let it. 

*

Andrea had almost ignored her, almost giving in at that moment she’d reappeared outside of the Foxes’ hotel room in FBI custody. For all the grief that she’d suffered because of losing Neala, it made sense for her to withdraw completely, and see how Neala felt about losing her. 

She couldn’t do it, though. She needed Neala against her chest: She needed to see the girl’s blue eyes and feel her gentle hands on her shoulders, in her hair. Nothing had ever made her feel so strongly before: No height, no drug, no wound. She had almost prayed, almost promised to dance until it brought her back to life. 

Then she was there, real and alive, holding onto Andrea’s face and telling her it was okay. She’d heard every detail of Neala’s tragic life unloaded for the FBI, like she was slashing her wrists and letting out the poison. 

Now she was asking Andrea if she could ever be Neala again. 

Andrea almost kissed her, but they were still on the bus: Everyone was there, exhausted, but still there. It wasn’t for anyone else’s eyes but their own. 

“You were always Neala.” Andrea held Neala’s jaw. “Nataliana died with her mother. Leave her there to rot.”

Neala looked relieved, searching Andrea’s eyes. Whatever she was looking for, she found it, slumping forward, keeping Andrea’s hand loosely clasped in her own. Her forehead rested on Andrea’s shoulder.

After feeling so ravished with emotion for such an extended period of time, she felt hollow, but relief kept her head above the water. She let Neala rest, unable to take her eyes off the girl. She might never let her out of her sight again. 

She tried to convince herself it was for Neala’s safety, but it was fruitless.

She’d never been good at lying.

*

Neala chased a kiss, stopping when Andrea retreated. “Do you want me to go?”

“Stay.” She muttered. 

They were on the couch of the enormous cabin Alistair had managed to rent last minute: Andrea had woken badly, and they’d spent half an hour in the living room, the dull murmur of the TV having almost lulled Neala back to sleep. 

Then Andrea had kissed her, and hadn’t stopped, not even when the stars had exploded behind Neala’s eyes and she’d gasped, falling over the edge of the cliff. Instead, they’d kept going, and Andrea had placed Neala’s hand where she wanted it. The scabs were almost healed, save the few worst ones: She had her shirt off, bruises and scars and scratches all exposed. 

But it was just them. No one was going to be awake, not even Remi, in all his sobriety and piousness. 

“Don’t move.” She warned. “Just stay.”

“Should we really be tainting the couch—“ Neala grinned. 

“Shut _up_.” Andrea growled, pushing her down onto her back. Neala let her kiss her into silence, and then into the oblivion beyond. 

*

“Oh,” Neala faltered, stunned. 

Her mother’s leotard had been restored and now it was attached to a full tutu, layered with gold and red tule. It was stunning. Beneath it was a pair of dazzling red pointes, embezzled with the same ruby-red crystals that adorned the tutu. Everything shone in the afternoon light. 

“Do you like it?” Nicki asked, hopeful. “The Esmeralda Variation really needs that flair, you know—I also put draped sleeves on the leotard. Who’s was it, anyway?”

“No one’s.” Neala murmured. “Nicki, I love it.”

The girl beamed. 

*

“Stop fretting.” Kayleigh snapped. She was nervous herself, all six feet of her. Her height was brilliantly alienating. She often lamented over it: Being too tall was a burden for a ballerina, who mightn’t ever find a partner of suitable height, who would struggle with strengthening all that extra length, and who often would have feet too large for typical pointe shoes.   
Neala thought that being too tall was better than too short: You could never be overlooked. 

Andrea was watching her, a little distance away. Wymack stood next to her, arms crossed, lips pursed. Neala followed the shadows across Andrea’s cheekbones, across her exposed collarbone and to her shoulder. She knew how much Andrea hated waiting behind stage, surrounded by nervous energy. Kayleigh’s particularly potent aura of anxiety was even worse. 

“I’m not the one fretting.” She muttered. Kayleigh rolled her eyes, reaching down to fix her ribbons. They didn’t need fixing. She’d spritzed them with so much hair-spray that she’d probably have to cut them off after her solo. 

The only thing that was stopping Kevin from winning first place of the Prix De Lausanne was the barrier in her head. They’d come a long way, and yet here they stood: The final three. Kayleigh, Neala and Rie. Neala had been allowed after a complication with Janine, who – unbeknownst to the public, was a mess of bruises and lacerations in Albert’s care. 

Neala was desperate to be a principal ballerina: The scars across her arms, chest and face might mean she’d never make it. But she could live out her dream tonight, knowing for two minutes, she could capture the attention of everyone in the room. 

_You’re a paradox,_  Andrea had whispered into Neala's mouth, against the skin of her jaw.  _You perform so well in the lime-light, and shy away from any attention given to you._

Well, now her blood-thirsty mother was dead. Rie was the last obstacle between her and a real future. 

Rie’s music began. Neala had heard it too many times. Aurora’s solo in the third act of Sleeping Beauty: One of the most difficult variations to perfect. No one could deny that Rie was a prodigal dancer, destined for fame. Her turn-out was insane, her strength unparalleled, her fluidity translating into every moment. 

Neala hated her guts. 

Kayleigh watched with a clenched jaw, hatred in her eyes. Neala had seen her, lying on the floor of the studio, staring at her foot. The reconstruction had taken months to heal: The scars would inhibit movement forever. She would never get over what Rie did to her. 

Neala watched it click in Kayleigh’s mind. She whirled around, looking to Diana. “I need eyeliner and concealer.” 

Andrea looked up, vaguely interested. Neala’s heart throbbed with excitement.  
   
She drew with a shaky hand, covering the two completely before drawing a shaky one. She looked into Diana’s little hand mirror, satisfied. 

“Look who's Queen now.” 

The music had stopped and the bell chimed.

It was Neala’s turn to dance. 

Kayleigh walked her up to the edge of the curtain, a fierce look of pride making Neala’s hands shake with the thrill of anticipation. She had Kayleigh at her side, Andrea at her back, her mother six-feet-under – Everything she could ever ask for.

“Next: Neala Josten: _Esmeralda Variation_.” 

She smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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